


Robotic Spice

by robotfvckers



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Alternate Universe - Human, Alternate Universe - Trans, Anal, Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Asphyxiation, Blow Jobs, Body Worship, Bondage, Breathplay, Canon-Typical Violence, Cock & Ball Torture, Consensual Somnophilia, Creampie, Dirty Talk, Dubious Consent, Edgeplay, Embedded Images, Erotic Electrostimulation, Face-Fucking, Fingerfucking, Fisting, Foot Jobs, Human Zenyatta, Hurt/Comfort, Hypnotism, Knotting, Kotatsu, M/M, Multiple Orgasms, Music, Omega Verse, Omega/Omega, Penis In Vagina Sex, Pregnant Sex, Rope Bondage, Semi-Public Sex, Sex Work, Shibari, Sloppy Seconds, Somnophilia, Trans Male Character, Trans Zenyatta, Vaginal Sex, Voyeurism, Wire Play, Yakuza Genji Shimada, valve
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-04-07
Updated: 2018-07-17
Packaged: 2018-10-15 20:54:23
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 15
Words: 12,579
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10557556
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/robotfvckers/pseuds/robotfvckers
Summary: Spicy Overwatch drabbles from anonymous prompts on tumblr.





	1. Roadyatta, Asphyxiation

**Author's Note:**

> Pairing: Roadhog/Zenyatta (roadyatta)  
> Warnings: asphyxiation, dub-con, facefuck, blowjob, breathplay

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Roadhog confronts Zenyatta.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Pairing: Roadhog/Zenyatta (roadyatta)  
> Warnings: Dubcon, facefuck, blowjob, asphyxiation

Mako knows the destruction magic can cause, and his blood _boils_  at the sight of anyone who wields it. Were he a younger man, he would have killed the monk before him. His genial, dark face and open demeanor mock him, remind him of everything that the omnics ruined. His livelihood, his homeland, the only life he ever knew.

But he is not a younger man; nuclear meltdown had a way of changing things.

Now, the monk’s graceful neck disappears inside the clench of his fist and he tugs, forcing the monk to his knees. The monk struggles, eyes bright and wide, high cheekbones gone splotchy and red, but he simply squeezes until the monk’s lids flutter and the long, delicate fingers cease scrabbling at his wrist.

Mako works quickly, danger buzzing along his skin like the aftershocks of an explosion: far enough away to feel the heat and energy, close enough to nearly fry the tips of the hairs along his arms. They are not alone, after all, the base teeming with recruits, an unlocked door separating them from discovery. He tugs his pants down in two harsh pulls, feels the cool air brush against his flaccid cock that he immediately takes in hand.

He unclenches his fist just enough to keep the monk from passing out. The monk gasps, flighty and wild, his eyes flickering from Mako stroking his slowly hardening cock and the man’s face, tawny skin flushing like a sunburn in the Australian heat. Mako doesn’t give him enough air to catch his breath, doesn’t want those venomous incantations to escape from that beguiling mouth. The little shambali may have everyone else under his thumb, but Mako is no fool. Their powers are not their own, and any who cling to the ethereal are corrupted by the old gods sooner or later, no matter their name, Anubis or Iris.

Mako stares at the tempting swell of the monk’s lips, round and pretty like a woman’s, catching flashes of his soft pink tongue behind two rows of straight white teeth. How his eyes couldn’t figure out where to look, finally slipping closed while he struggled to pull in the scant air that Mako allowed him. The perfect, nine dot array never flickered with its otherworldly blue light, remaining dormant like identical freckles upon his shaved pate.

His dick twitches and thickens as he watches the monk’s face, knows how dangerous he is, how easily he could be destroyed if there was room between them. The excitement of it, of having such a pretty, powerful thing at his mercy makes him impatient. Mako yanks the monk forward, bumping his lips against the wet head of his cock. The monk jerks, causing his dick to slide along his cheek, a wet trail of precum in its wake. Mako grunts, slaps him hard across the mouth. The omnic’s shout catches in his throat, but when the monk stares up at him, nearly eclipsed by the arc of his gut, it’s not anger or fear but hesitant, barely contained lust, the amber color of his iris drowned in black.

Mako grabs his dick, lets it smack against the reddened mark on his face while the monk _flinches_.

“Open your mouth.” Mako says, each word low and slow, like he’s speaking to a child, or an animal.

The hand at his throat relaxes slightly when the monk _listens_ , presents that soft tongue, tilts his head back so he can see the red insides of his throat. Mako groans when he taps the tip of his cock against that velvet muscle, loving how the saliva grips at him, how hot and wet his mouth feels trembling against the underside of his cock.

He doesn’t think he’ll fit, but he does. Mako doesn’t go easy, takes the power like he does anything else, hard, unforgiving, no score too small. The monk’s throat convulses around him when he pushes too deep, knows he doesn’t pull back as much as he should to let him breathe. The omnic’s so responsive, groaning and choking, voice fucked out and raspy when he takes those precious pulls of air, saliva and pre catching in gossamer strands between those swollen lips and his dripping cock.

When he draws close, Mako works his forefinger and thumb in a circle behind his glans, bumping his slit against the monk’s tongue, the monk breathing like he’s run a marathon when the first jet of cum catches against his cheek, the second landing hot and thick on his presented tongue. The monk _shakes_ , panting, tongue hanging out of his mouth and letting the cum drip when Mako finally releases his throat, only to lock his hands at his chin to study his work.

“Swallow it.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For more fic and prompt requests, I'm on [tumblr](https://robotfvckers.tumblr.com).


	2. Genyatta, Hyponosis

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Zenyatta uses hypnosis to talk to young Genji.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Pairing: Genji/Zenyatta (genyatta)  
> Warnings: hypnosis, dubcon, fingering, edging, pining

Zenyatta whispers, and the incantation filters through Genji’s mind like music through water, distant and otherworldly. 

His master’s forehead glows, each pinpoint of light soft and dazzling, matching the ethereal shine of his eyes. He breathes out, and the words cease. Then there is nothing. **  
**

Zenyatta opens his eyes. Genji stares back at him, wide and unseeing. Then, a shift: his student sighs, eyelids drooping, pupils dilating, ringed with gold. He grins.

“Hey, there. I haven’t seen you around here before.” Genji murmurs, eyes tracing over his master, flickering to his orange garb, hesitating for an instant on Zenyatta’s bare chest.

“Genji?” Zenyatta murmurs. The hairs on his neck prickle. This is not the first time someone has stared at him with such open interest. That the attention comes from Genji is.

“Oh, my reputation precedes me. All good things, I hope.” Genji purrs, leaning forward, hand settling high on Zenyatta’s thigh. “That’s what I’m known for. _Being good_.”

Over the years, Genji had divulged his past to Zenyatta, things he wasn’t proud to admit. Gambling. Drinking. Sleeping with anyone that caught his eye, especially if it displeased the clan. Zenyatta thought this exercise would help Genji come to terms with his past. To think this is who his student was, who he might’ve met, in another life. His chest tightens.

“What’s your name?” Pressure on his face refocuses him on the now. Genji slides the pad of his thumb along his lower lip, cupping his chin so gently, like Zenyatta is fragile, like he doesn’t want to startle him.

Zenyatta exhales, soft and low, face heating, eyes downcast. He tells him in a hushed whisper.

“Zenyatta.” Genji repeats, inches from his master’s face. Monk. Tekhartha. Master. Genji has never called him his given name. “So pretty. It suits you.”

-

Zenyatta cries into the sheets of his bed, the smell of incense and sex filling his nose. Genji twists his fingers inside him, teasing around something that makes Zenyatta’s body tremble and his insides quake with pleasure.

“Right there? So sensitive.” Genji moans into his ear, pressing his dripping cock harder against the soft muscles of Zenyatta’s thigh, rutting while he fucks his master with his fingers. Zenyatta’s own cock hangs heavy and fat between his legs, precum dripping into the sheets.

“This can’t be your first time. Holed up in a monastery with a bunch of men? I bet you are quite popular.”

Zenyatta moans, broken and _wanting_  like he’s never known, hips pressing back for more, but Genji continues to graze that spot inside him that keeps him weak and helpless. Open in a way he has never been with his student, like he’s always wished to be. Wonders if his Genji wants this too, but it’s so hard to think, so hard to feel anything but those fingers teasing him until his toes curl and his thighs flex and he’s, he’s -

Crying out, when Genji withdraws his fingers, circling his swollen hole before shifting behind him, the warm press of something more substantial nudging against his body. Genji shushes him, each word lancing new sick pangs of want through his bones.

“Easy now.” Genji whispers, one hand grasping Zenyatta’s hip, steadying him. “Let’s see how many times you can come for me, Zenyatta.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For more fic and prompt requests, I'm on [tumblr](https://robotfvckers.tumblr.com).


	3. McReyes, Body Worship

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> McCree meets his old boss later in life.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Pairing: McCree/Reyes (older McReaper)  
> Warnings: body worship, ass eating

It’s been decades since the last time he’s seen Gabriel’s naked body. Peeling back creased leather and reinforced armor, he watches that dark, ashen skin slip into view, tendrils of smoke separating from his flesh like vapor on dry ice and nearly as chilling. He runs his metal hand over the swell of Gabriel’s ass, smile tugging his lips when he realizes.

“You’re still such a looker, boss.” Jesse says, voice low, awe hanging on each syllable as he lifts both organic and metal hands to spread his cheeks. His eyes follow his curves until he sees it, Gabe still soft and pink, though oddly hairless. Jesse doesn’t mind.

His old commander grunts, jerks into the moth-eaten cot they’ve settled on in an abandoned house. There’s a bark of far off laughter, the smell of exhaust and orange halogen glow leaking in through the broken window.

“Gotten introspective in your old age, have ya?” Jesse drawls, pressing his naked hand against Gabe’s hole, brushes his thumb against the swelling curve of his balls, every part of him cool to the touch, smooth like a statue. He remembers the warm pulse of his commander beneath him in another life, quaking and needy.

Well, at least he could make one of those things a reality now.

“Shut up.”

The duality of Gabe’s voice raised the hackles on his neck the first time he heard it, but now it’s just another part of him, new, accepted. If he really tries, he feels a twinge of loss for who Gabe used to be: proud, hot-blooded, intimidating as hell and twice as much in standard uniform. It isn’t even like he’s lost most of those features; it’s almost like Gabe has been enhanced again, a terror, a true otherworldly being physically embodying that past strength. And if Jesse thought about it, late at night, staring at the ceiling while he couldn’t sleep, that he buried this man over a decade ago, and that if any Gabe, monster or human, returned to him, he would never let go.

Jesse’s finger catches against Gabe’s rim, applying pressure but not pressing inside, gauging Gabe’s reactions. The man’s half clothed still, coat tossed to the floor, head tucked into the crook of his arm. The smoke billows around his face, scarred surface a ghostly outline. He doesn’t like Jesse to see his face, but he doesn’t want Jesse to know he doesn’t want him to see. Jesse chuckles, and Gabe’s whole body tenses at once.

“No need for that. Don’t be so nervous.” Jesse leans forward, drags his tongue against Gabe’s hole. There’s nothing to taste besides the faint trace of ash and salt on the back of his tongue.

The wraith twitches, gasps like he wasn’t expecting it. His metal hand tugs one cheek back, opens up space for him to work, flicking his tongue against his finger and finally nudges inside. He wants to tease Gabe, but he knows that’s not what he needs. He curls, feeling around, and it’s like they’ve done this yesterday with how easy he has Gabe gasping, low and hot.

“Still so sensitive. I missed this. Missed you.” Jesse murmurs when he takes a breath. Gabe moans, bites it back, growls.

“Stop. Talking.”

Jesse does, works his mouth against Gabe until his body goes warm and pliant beneath his tongue while Gabe strains and swears, fucks his hips back against his mouth when he draws close, spills warm and thick against the sheets when Jesse curls his finger, like clockwork, like old times.

“Beautiful.” Jesse murmurs, finally catching the crimson-flecked gaze of the one he loves staring back at him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For more fic and prompt requests, I'm on [tumblr](https://robotfvckers.tumblr.com).


	4. Zencio, Vibration Kink

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lúcio and Zenyatta have an intimate jam session.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Pairing: Lúcio/Zenyatta (zencio)  
> Warnings: wireplay, vibration kink, electro stimulation, music kink

“You ready?” Lúcio asks, fingers poised over his control console. He smiles at Zenyatta, who nods and traces the thin cable plugged into his chest. It’s a quiet night at the watchpoint, the time between missions stretching long enough that they can relax and have a breather for once. **  
**

Lúcio taps the screen, illuminating a small square button. Music pours from the speakers lining each wall in the small room, a click on the track catching Zenyatta by surprise. The sound pulses through his circuits in waves, beginning in the center of his chest, pumping in time, ambient swells caressing down to the tips of his fingers, vibrating to the soles of his feet. Warmth blooms along his chassis, soft but undeniable, like hearing Lúcio’s music in the field, only instead of around it’s _inside him_.

“Fascinating.” Zenyatta hums, the ghost sensations growing more vibrant by the second, building with the tempo of the music. His well-tempered calm slips away in increments, replaced by a strange giddiness.

“Yeah? Says you’re showing increased energy levels.” He hears the smile in Lúcio’s voice as the DJ pecks at his station, glancing over as he works his analog and digital instruments in time, operating the set-up like it isn’t an unlabeled mass of cables and knobs and screens. Even after spending so much time with him, memorizing each switch and button, cataloging them in his feeds, Zenyatta’s captivated by how easily Lúcio’s hands dance over the console.

A familiar warmth, as secretive and slow as the first, pools down his wires as he stares at Lúcio’s hands, joining the already heightened sensations undulating through him. His grip tightens on the cable at his chest, the finest tremble clicking the smaller, looser wires of his body together. Lúcio continues to spin as the pressure builds, gentle and on rhythm, cresting into something that feels familiar, like—

“A-ah.” Zenyatta gasps, stilling, wires pulsing like the flutter of Lúcio’s heart when he touches his chest.

Lúcio stops and looks at him, the beat continuing without fluctuation. Zenyatta plants a hand on the table, pitching forward, sensation searing through his wires, stronger with every click. The bundle of nerves between his legs surges thick and heavy, twitching with energy, nearly overloaded with it.

“You…still okay?” Lúcio grips his forearm, angles Zenyatta’s face towards him with a gentle hand at his chin, as if he could read an omnic expression. Maybe he can, knows the flickering of Zenyatta’s array, feels the fine trembling of his faceplate like morse code. Lúcio’s cheeks darken at the next soft cry, ripe with static.

“Feels good?” His voice drops and he leans closer, slotting his smaller body into Zenyatta’s side, eyes tracking his face. His hand moves behind him, still plucking at the console, controlling the tempo, the intensity, gauging Zenyatta’s reactions and playing off them, playing _him_ , like an instrument.

“ _Yes_.” Zenyatta hisses, sounds alien, tight and needy. The tempo quickens, 150 beats per minute, 160, each note flooding pulse after pulse through him, reverberating from the tips of his systems and flooding back, cascading and colliding and building.

“Can I touch you? The noises you’re making are really doing something for me.”

Zenyatta keens, throws an arm over the small human and pulls him to his chest, hard enough to hurt, perhaps, but the swell of music, euphoric, harmonious, revitalizes them both. Zenyatta jerks, ruts into the firm warmth of Lúcio’s stomach, clutching his lower back in a vice, synth warbling as his sytems start to offline.

“O-oh, I am going to—ah!”

“Yeah, come for me, Zenyatta.” Lúcio laughs, weaseling his hand into the loose lip of Zenyatta’s pants, hands expertly pushing the sequencing of Zenyatta’s modesty panel. The moment those sensitive, overclocked nodes receive the manual stimulation of Lúcio’s calloused fingers cupping and rolling around them, he is lost.

Zenyatta overloads with a long, whimpering note, crackling as the base drops, losing his footing as the heightened input crashes core functions, but Lúcio holds him like his isn’t inches taller and fifty pounds heavier. The omnic chirps and clutches at him, mindless, then boneless, in Lúcio’s arms. The man’s hands tease up the red cables of his spine, gently unplug the cable from his chest so he can press his face to it, nuzzling.

“That was amazing.” Lúcio murmurs, kissing at the warm paneling.

Zenyatta’s fans kick on belatedly, steam rustling Lúcio’s hair. The DJ laughs, and Zenyatta joins after freeing up the processing power, the sound like melodic bells against the soft, continuing music. Zenyatta captures Lúcio’s chin in his hands, bumps his faceplate against his cheek. Lúcio kisses at the golden lip, breath clouding the chrome.

“I would be offended if you did not let me return the favor.” The omnic replies, voice an octave lower and warm with promise.

“Yeah. I’d like that a lot.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For more fic and prompt requests, I'm on [tumblr](https://robotfvckers.tumblr.com).


	5. Genyatta, Hypnosis Sequel

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sequel to the Genyatta hypnosis fic.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Pairing: Genji/Zenyatta (genyatta)  
> Warnings: mentions of past hypnosis, mentions of somnophilia

 

Two things are center in his mind when Zenyatta opens his eyes. **  
**

One, he is alone.

Two, his body _aches_.

He has not been this sore in many years, not since he first joined the shambali and began his training. The areas of his pain, however, are new, incriminating. His thighs and back twinge as he shifts, a soft, startled noise escaping him.

He tenses, hisses when the sheets stick stubbornly to his stomach. Something _trickles_  out of him, and he remembers everything at once, like a switch flipped. Genji flirting with sweet words and sweeter touches. Genji asking, and oh, how Zenyatta gave. On his knees, on his stomach, his back, when he grew too tired to support himself, letting Genji gather him in his lap and fuck him deep, magicked, golden eyes staring, unwavering, into Zenyatta’s own.

Zenyatta grips the sheets, chest tightening by the second, a chill twisting his guts. He shakes his head, claps a palm over mouth and squeezes, staring down at the messy sheets.

Of course he is alone. He can only imagine how Genji must’ve felt, waking up next to a man he trusted, his _master_ , who offered help but only took and betrayed.

 _Just like that. You’re so beautiful. Come for me, Zenyatta_.

His face heats, eyes burning, gut twisting, because even after everything he still _wants Genji_. To wake up in Genji’s arms, to open his eyes and have his student leisurely curling slick fingers inside him, speaking endearments against his thigh.

Tears threaten to spill, but he will not allow himself the release. How could he pity himself when he did such a vile, disgusting thing? How would he ever apologize to Genji, how could he ever look him in the eye—

The bathroom door slides open with a soft hiss.

Genji stands in the doorway, face neutral. Soft, brown eyes flicker over his form, but stay oddly fixated on his face.

“Genji.” Zenyatta manages, hands stiff against his thighs.

“Good morning. How are you feeling?” Genji responds, tight and formal, mouth twitching ever so slightly into a frown. The same mouth that kissed him breathless. Zenyatta feels _sick_.

It must show on his face, because Genji is beside him in an instant.

“I’ve filled the tub for you. It will...help.” Genji says, staring over Zenyatta’s shoulder.

Zenyatta swallows against the lump in his throat, every muscle screaming as he attempts to sit up and pull his body to the edge of the bed while keeping himself covered. He barely gets his feet to the ground before he whimpers, the sound loud in the deathly quiet of the room. Zenyatta winces, starting a chain reaction of ghost aches and hurts, wishing he could disappear.

Genji doesn’t comment on the noise, but he does scoop Zenyatta into his arms, hand cupping his thighs and back. Zenyatta gasps, soft and pathetic, clutches at Genji’s shoulders, his side pressing into the warm, soft metal of Genji’s body. Slick drips from between his legs, and it feels like _so much_ , and he prays Genji doesn’t notice how wet and messy he left him, evidence of their coupling still clinging to him. The cyborg’s grip only tightens as he walks, eyes cast towards their destination.

They enter the bathroom, the steam instantly warming them both, even moreso when the door shuts behind them. The smell of lilacs filters distantly through his mind as Genji gently lowers him into the tub. Zenyatta gasps at the sting of hot water kissing his most sensitive places.

“Thank you.” Zenyatta whispers, unable to bring himself to look at Genji. Instead he stares at the murky water, willing his body to cease throbbing. To find courage to apologize.

But the courage doesn’t come, and the silence stretches, tugged thin like Zenyatta’s sanity. He damns himself again for his weakness, for his magic, discord flooding him like he hasn’t felt before.

A soft thump catches his ears.

“Please. I know what I have done cannot be undone. Ma—Zenyatta.” And doesn’t hearing his name from Genji, _his Genji_ , spark the deeply rooted longing inside him. “If you wish me to leave, I will go.”

Zenyatta snaps his head towards his student, seated in dogeza, forehead and green hair brushing the bathroom tile. He gapes, shocked speechless as his student attempts to apologize to _him_.

Genji continues without his response. He catches his master’s gaze, and Zenyatta reads pain in those eyes, regret, but determination in equal parts, the green of his dragon shining through.

“I wanted it. I could feel my old self and new become one. I took you. I can still feel your body opening to me, pleasure and desire along my skin, in my bones. The dragon, I, look upon the marks on your body and feel satisfaction. Possessiveness.”

Zenyatta flushes up to his ears.

“Marks?” He breathes and actually looks at his own body: teeth marks at his chest, catching one nipple, a darker bite at his hipbone. _Fingerprints_.

Genji’s expression turns sheepish. “Yeah. I had thought you would’ve noticed.”

The silence nearly takes them again, but Genji’s admission galvanizes him, makes his tongue loose.

“I would prefer that you stay.” He pauses. “And that we continue this conversation after I am clean.”

Genji nods once, sits up, smile bright and beautiful and happy, and it's impossible for Zenyatta not to smile softly in return.

-

Smelling faintly of lilacs and clothed in fresh robes, Genji and Zenyatta return to his room. Zenyatta tucks his head into the crook of Genji’s shoulder, breathes in the smell of him, relishes in their closeness even through nervousness and quietly fading shame.

Genji places him on the bed and throws the dirty comforter on the floor. Zenyatta clicks his tongue, and Genji snorts.

“I will clean it later.”

They both settle on the bed, half facing each other.

Finally, Zenyatta begins.

“It was abhorrent of me to let you continue, not knowing how aware you were of what was occurring.” Zenyatta holds up his hand as Genji begins to protest. “I am deeply sorry, Genji.”

“If we are giving apologies, then I am sorry I left you in such a state and was not here when you awoke.” Genji leans forward, inches from Zenyatta’s face, peers down the opening of his robe, eyes dragging hungrily over Zenyatta’s dusky, marked chest. “Well,” His voice deepens. “Not that sorry.”

Zenyatta half-laughs, half-gasps as his face heats.

“You have learned something from last night then. Shameless.” Zenyatta says, smirking before softening when Genji stares at his lips.

“I have learned my advances are not so unwelcome.” Genji says, eyelids falling to half mast. “I want to kiss you.”

Zenyatta tilts his head, barely brushes his lips against Genji’s own, dry and warm and chaste. Their lips part with a soft smack. Genji captures him this time, deeper, wetter. Zenyatta groans, and Genji surges, kisses him hard, nipping at his tongue, claiming him.

Genji takes his time retracing his steps, gentler, softer than their first encounter. He gets Zenyatta off with his mouth, the monk’s fingers twisted in his hair, Genji’s name spilling off his tongue like a prayer. He pulls Genji up his body afterwards, panting, leaves his own marks against the human side of Genji’s neck while he captures his leaking, synthetic cock in his hand. He works it over hungrily until Genji groans, hot and pleased, into the crook of Zenyatta’s bruised neck, spend catching against Zenyatta’s belly and chest.

Genji disrobes Zenyatta, wipes his mess away, and tucks himself against Zenyatta’s side.

They kiss, love drunk and lazy, then doze in the early hours of the morning, finally allowed in each other’s arms.


	6. Reapyatta + Genyatta, Fantasizing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Gabe wonders what the young Shimada lord has planned for the visiting performer.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Pairing: Imagined Reaper/Zenyatta and Genyatta  
> Warnings: Dub/noncon musings, power imbalance  
> A gift for [cyberrat](https://cyberrat.tumblr.com). <3  
>   
>  **NSFW IMAGE AT THE END OF THE CHAPTER**

 

Gabe wonders if the monk knows he will not be leaving tonight, consumed as he is by the task at hand.

His hazel eyes draw thin, and the gold paint beneath each catches in the low light as he weaves his body to the chiming of the orbs encircling his body. There is something otherworldly in the way he moves, like magic, but Gabe doesn’t believe in magic. Yet, if he stares at the outline of the monk’s body hard enough, he almost sees something: an afterimage, a trick of the eye like an illusion on the horizon.

He flows to the swelling accompaniment of the other monks, drums and shamisen joining the chimes, and his motions intensify like a fight, a koan incarnate, skirts and belts rippling as his spins and arches, steps so slight and practiced he floats.

Lord Shimada watches with polite interest, but the young master slouches forward, chin cupped in his palm, calloused thumb pressing his lower lip. His pupils shine, large and dark, and a telltale flush dusts his high cheekbones. Gabe has seen that look before.

He doesn’t blame the young master, but he does feel sorry for the monk. Untouched, he guesses, raised in the mountains five thousand kilometers away, though the monk looks his mid-twenties. A sweet, uninitiated bauble to amuse for an evening; the young master grew bored with his conquests quite easily.

Gabe straightens in his black suit, clenching his hands in front of him. When the finale comes, will the young master cheer uproariously, showering the warm-skinned dancer in praise? Will he woo him with promises of wealth and power and pleasure? He imagines some monks are immune to such flattery, but no one is infallible, and new, unknown attentions might sway him. Gabe hopes, for his sake, it does.

The young master does not take rejection lightly.

The monk may refuse. Gabe may be ordered forward to retrieve him for whatever the young master desired. It would not be the first time. He would use his guns for this one, the orbs’ rotations beautiful but dangerous, whistling through the air like bullets.

He would restrain the monk, careful, so careful to leave him unharmed. The young master cut off the last guard’s arm when he was sloppy. Gabe hopes he would come easily, after, allow his robes to be slipped his body. He would lay back for Gabe on the silken sheets of the bed, spread his long, supple thighs, let Gabe tease his fingers inside him until he is wet and soft and mewling.

Gabe bites his lip. The monk could be hard, cock straining, dripping pearls against his lean, trembling stomach, or flaccid, ignorant of his own body, or perhaps too frightened. It would not make any difference to the young master; what he lacked in restraint he made up in skill. He would bring the monk to heaven sooner or later.

Gabe shifts as the music ebbs, dick pulsing, trapped down the leg of his suit. He can’t help but let his thoughts linger as the monk arcs in a sinuous line; Gabe’s hands would overshadow his waist if he held his hips. He rolls his lower lip into his mouth and bites, shakes his head.

The young master would never grant such a request, not when his own interest shown so plainly on his face, in his posture, in the thickening curve between his legs. Gabe hopes as the monk sinks into a low bow, music fading, that the young master will let him watch.

Art by [Sea](https://robotfvckers.tumblr.com/tagged/sea%20art)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The sequel (written by Cyberrat) and another sequel by me can be found in my [500 follower fic compilation](https://archiveofourown.org/works/11496456).


	7. Implied Genyatta, Handatta, Kidnapping

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hanzo thinks of a new way to bring his brother to heel.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Pairings: Gen, (Implied Genyatta, Handatta)  
> Warnings: implied noncon, kidnapping, picture of Zen tied at end
> 
>  
> 
> **NSFW IMAGE AT THE END OF THE CHAPTER**

Hanzo tries punishments first. Prolonged seiza. Reciting doctrines. Withdrawn privileges. He suggests beatings when nothing else works, but his father forbids it (and truthfully, Hanzo doesn’t want to _hurt_ his baby brother, he just wants him to sit quietly at a meeting for once, hell, just show up to one.)

The elder Shimada brother has to get creative.

“A good plan,” his father had said, earning Hanzo a rare smile. “One that requires no violence should always be considered first.”

His father’s blessing is all the incentive he needs.

-

The hardest part is waiting. Hanzo knows he only has one shot at this: if he presents a gift less than superb, less than what befits a young master of Shimada, Genji will not take the bait. However, he doesn’t have to wait for long.

The procession of monks appears a few weeks later, walking in a smooth line down one of Hanamura’s oldest streets. Each is well-groomed and shaven, eye catching and alluring all at once. They wear robes of fine embroidery to show their status, like a mandate of heaven, Hanzo assumes. He shakes his head as they pass in the distance, one by one in a neat row. These would be servants of more traditional ilk. Hanzo would not mind their leader pour his tea, and he stares hungrily at those long, graceful fingers clasped in front of the monk as he walks.

Mid fantasy, he notices something amiss. Several steps behind his fellows is a final monk, talking to a wizened fishmonger. He looks nothing like his brothers and sisters, though he is shaved and similarly dark-skinned as their leader. His robes are plainer, tattered at the edges, his mala spin in a lazy, capricious circle around his shoulders. When he laughs, Hanzo sees a flash of white teeth, and the monger glows with the attention. He slips her coin as one of his attendants chitters at him, perhaps telling him to step back in line, and the monk bows, smiling as apology before turning to wink at the monger.

A younger brother, distant to his own monastic rule.

Hanzo knows he has found the one.

-

Capturing the one is more difficult than Hanzo could ever imagine.

First, he evades, lower agents of the clan unable to locate him, even after validating their intel.

Then he _fights_ , those pretty baubles masquerade as deadly weapons, and Hanzo’s men learn the hard way, in blood and bruises and broken bones, he is not to be underestimated.

Finally, unfortunately, Hanzo makes the trip, grown weary of watching his men fail. He takes the monk himself, injured and exhausted by the time his entourage places the monk in the back of his limo.

He has the monk cleaned and bound as he sleeps, and Hanzo selects a kimono of the finest silks to match his brother’s lurid green dragon and his rebellious hair. The monk’s eyelashes flutter just as an attendant paints the last of the red beneath his eyes.

The golden eyes that meet Hanzo’s are of fire, molten in their intensity. He will fight, the monk says without words.

Hanzo smiles.

It is _exactly_ what he wants.

 

Art by [Sea](https://robotfvckers.tumblr.com/tagged/sea%20art)


	8. Genyatta, soft sleepy lovins

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Genji isn't quite done with Zenyatta yet.

Genji withdraws with a soft groan, and he can’t help but thrust shallowly twice more before his synthetic cock slips free with a thick, wet sound. The sight of Zenyatta flexing and twisting with even the gentlest roll of his hips forever intoxicates him. Zenyatta moans weakly, faceplate pressed into the pillow, hands bound with silk to the headboard, loose and easy. He could tear the fabric if he wanted, but he doesn’t dream of doing so.

“You’re so beautiful, Zenyatta.” Genji breathes, filled with awe, like he’s seeing Zenyatta spread and leaking for the first time. His master chirps quietly, thighs twitching, valve contracting weakly around nothing, still recalibrating, process slow from the long, thorough treatment he had received.

Genji hums, dark eyes thinned and warm, and traces a finger into the slick mess beneath his master, smearing the mix of white and teal and watching it gleam on his hand. Then he cups Zenyatta’s inner thigh, the omnic sighing but not much else, and Genji dips his head.

“ _Itadakimasu._ ” Genji murmurs, and Zenyatta would give him a playful smack if his arms weren’t bound. Instead he gasps as Genji’s searing tongue descends on his valve, already swollen and pulsing from use.

“ _Genji_.” Zenyatta cries, synth hoarse and cracking, hands twisting in the silk. He knows with four percent more force the fabric will tear beneath his servos, so he restrains himself as best he can, though it’s nearly impossible with the way his lover flicks his tongue so perfectly across his glowing, swollen node.

Genji pins Zenyatta’s thighs against the sheets as he suckles his clit, chuckling as Zenyatta twists so very weakly beneath his tongue, too tired to fight, not wanting to struggle, but everything is oversensitive and _tight_.

“Tired so soon, master? Perhaps you need more training.” Genji whispers between licks, suckling the teal nub before Zenyatta can protest.

“Hnn— _cheeky_.” Is all he can manage as he feels the telltale signs of his insides drawing tight, low lubricant warnings flickering within his processes. “You have ah-already drained me of my reserves.”

“I would have it all.” Genji says, voice sinking sinfully deep as he grows serious, sucking hard and flicking his tongue against him, kissing between his dripping folds when his master draws close, teasing him.

Zenyatta’s cock jerks, heavy and lazy against his chassis, endlessly interested in Genji’s attentions, leaking even as Genji focuses beneath it where his gleaming, spit-slickened nub resides. The monk chirrups, jerks, twitching against the flickering, capricious tongue, fluttery and weak, so weak.

How he wants to tear the silk, fist his fingers in his lover’s beautiful green hair, grind into that hot, giving mouth until he overloads for the fourth time, and Genji would praise him for it, lap up the rest of his lube reserves with pleasure.

Trapped beneath his lover for hours, low, so low on energy, he can do no such thing, not without falling into sleep mode, though he thinks that is Genji’s plan with how amorously he flicks his tongue, hot swipes sparking along frayed, overburdened sensors.

Slowly, the pleasure builds, crests, Genji’s mouth rhythmic, almost cradling Zenyatta’s lower half, and reality blurs, narrowing to the clench of his fingers, his thighs, his valve spilling over his lover’s synthetic lower lip. He can see Genji like he can feel the warmth of the Iris, without his array, his mouth, coated in teal, sucking, working at him, never tiring, always _wanting_ , and Zenyatta gives and gives and gives, could never deny his student. His love. His sparrow centered in the endless expanse of sky that is his whole world.

Distantly, he feels his orgasm bloom, his whole frame quaking with the intensity of it. His systems crash as Genji whispers endearments against his silicone and chrome, hands stroking, endlessly touching. Zenyatta feels consciousness slip away, warm, loved, so safe in Genji’s embrace.

He delivers his revenge when he wakes to Genji rutting lazily against his thigh, whimpering as Zenyatta’s hand, free against the sheets, wraps teasingly along his cock.

“I believe it is my turn.”


	9. Doomzo, edging, bondage

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Akande puts Hanzo through his paces.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Pairing: Doomfist/Hanzo (Doomzo)  
> Warnings: dubcon(?), bondage, edging

Akande shushes Hanzo as he strains against his bindings. The cords are synthetic and smooth, designed for minimal chafing: it allows one to struggle to exhaustion without a single mark to show for it.

At least, not from the ropes.

Hanzo is beautiful, moreso when his defenses are stripped away, piece by piece, reduced as he is to a sweating, flushed mess. His hair, always drawn tight and orderly, curtains his face, disheveled from his struggles, making him appear years younger. The severe line of Hanzo’s mouth slackens, gapes as he pants, high cheekbones blotchy and rouged.

Akande hums and appreciates the view. He cups Hanzo’s chest softly, with gentleness belying his appearance. He catches one of Hanzo’s nipples between a blunt finger and thumb, rolling, tugging, and Hanzo gasps, the flesh grown taut and swollen with his teasing.

“You are so sensitive.” He murmurs, and Hanzo dips his face into his shoulder, eyelashes fluttering, mouth quivering. “Ah, ah.”

The sounds of the toy nestled between Hanzo’s thighs intensifies as Akande swivels the dial on his holopad. Hanzo tenses, cries out, chest heaving, thighs shaking, corded muscles clenching and relaxing, the dragon upon his arm twisting and coiling like a living thing.

“You are to look at me. Do not hide yourself.” And Hanzo struggles, as Akande knew he would. He is a proud warrior, honorable, from a noble family. All things he has in common with Akande himself.

He twists and plucks at Hanzo’s nipples absently, waiting for Hanzo to tilt his chin up, for his eyes to catch his own, drowned in black.

“Very good. You are learning.”

Akande sweeps his large hand down the trembling, sweat-slick curves of Hanzo’s body, mapping his scars, his badges of honor from his struggles, struggles that have made him strong. He twists his fingers in the coarse trail beneath Hanzo’s belly while Hanzo growls, shifting his hips as much as his restraints will allow, hesitant still, even after the hours Akande spent carefully eroding Hanzo’s mental restraints while trapped in physical ones.

The man’s cock bobs, thick and angry, bright red even beneath its glans. He’s bound here too, rope snug behind his heavy balls, tight against the base of his cock. Akande sighs, circles the tip of his finger along his cockhead, smearing the excessive pre-cum gathered there, wayward drops joining the mess already pooled beneath him. Hanzo draws so tight Akande thinks he will pass out, howl caught in his throat, petering out with a harsh, clipped grunt as Akande takes him in hand, just holding him, cradling his short, wet cock. Hanzo quakes, unable to stay still, unable to move properly, the toy buzzing inside him audible only between Hanzo’s labored breaths.

“Are you ready to beg? I know it is hard.” He grabs Hanzo’s chin with his free hand, staring into his face, fixating on the tightness between his brows, the way Hanzo’s eyes shine with unspent, frustrated tears. “Lessons in humility are often the most difficult to overcome.”

Hanzo’s jaw flexes, and Akande feels the power in the motion. Then Hanzo bites his lip, another high-pitched grunt gained when Akande strokes him once, twice, twisting his wrist on the upstroke, catching more spend against his fingers.

He let’s go as Hanzo draws as tight as the bow he wields, cock jumping, hips stuttering, shivery and weak.

“Do not come.” Akande orders, and Hanzo does sob then, once, shaking like a leaf in the onset of a monsoon, the first tears gliding over those noble cheekbones. He grabs for Hanzo’s cock again, grips it harder, strokes it as he would himself, tight and fast, and Hanzo chokes, releasing a sound so anguished Akande nearly feels sorry for him, though it does not stop him from pulling back once more. “Hold it.”

And he knows by the way Hanzo gnashes his teeth, feet scrabbling at the floor, that he has failed. Hanzo sobs as his orgasm hits like a wall; thick spurts of cum catch against his stomach, his chest, his beard, huge biceps flexing, whole body heaving and pained. He cries, low and deep, the sound of a man who has known and lost himself.

It takes many moments for Hanzo’s awareness to return, eyes glassy and face tear-stained. Hanzo licks his lips, staring up at Akande, so _open_  that it momentarily shocks him.

Akande smiles, strokes Hanzo’s slackened lower lip with his thumb like a lover would.

“There are things to be learned from failure.” He murmurs. “Let us continue.”


	10. Genyatta, Pregnant Sex

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Carrying a dragon's child takes its toll.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Pairing: Genyatta  
> Warnings: consensual somno (but consent is not mentioned), trans Zenyatta, PIV, masculine terms used for Zen’s genitals, knotting, monster cock, pregnant sex

He shivers into consciousness, bleary-eyed and confused. The sheets beneath him are damp and too warm, the blankets tossed off in his sleep. His confusion lasts only a moment as the heat swells in his gut, and he clenches his thighs against it. Zenyatta realizes sweat isn’t the only thing staining the sheets.

Dizzy and hot, so hot, swollen, aching. His hands shift between the folds of his light robes, over the soft, precious bump of his middle, lower, biting a moan as his hand glides like silk between his legs, catching over the engorged swell of his fat, swollen cock.

Zenyatta arches, throws his head back and stifles a groan, and he feels himself, molten and twitching and needy.

He is not sure he will ever be used to this helplessness, the ardor, more potent from the seed sown in his belly. He frames his cock with two soaked fingers, rubbing it in gentle circles, too large and sensitive to touch directly, but as he groans and shakes and sweats he knows it will not be enough. Not anymore.

“Genji.” Zenyatta murmurs, husky and razed, but his partner doesn’t shift.

He spends precious seconds watching Genji’s sleeping face, slackened and at peace, tracing his husband’s scars and horns as one reads their favorite passage in a book, with care and intense, nostalgic fondness.

His love only intensifies the insistent, undeniable pulse between his legs, nipples peaked and thickened from the life inside him. It is too early for them to leak, but they do, and Zenyatta tugs the sleeves from his shoulders, unable to handle even the soft fabric against such sensitive, swollen flesh.

Everything is too hot, too tight, prickling with need, and he cannot ride out this tide of pleasure-pain ricocheting through every part of his being.

“Genji.” Zenyatta says again, wanting to wake him, undress him properly, kiss those soft, scarred lips. He does that at least, descending on Genji’s unresponsive mouth, peppering small, needy marks along his half-parted lips.

Zenyatta works his fingers between his own legs greedily, helplessly, the sloppy wet squelch of his desire loud and obscene, and he wonders if the sound alone will wake him. Already his body quakes and jerks, belly drawn taut, relaxing, clenching as he switches between sliding slick, harsh fingers inside himself and teasing his cock in quick, mean presses. Close, already, close, but the heat will come for him again. It will not be enough. His free hand fists into Genji’s robes, tugging at his husband’s underclothes in uncoordinated jerks.

Zenyatta groans, tosses a leg over Genji’s thigh, grinding with ease, shaking his head as he fucks against it, unable to stop the pistoning of his hips. His hand finds Genji half-hard, even in sleep, and he wonders if the smell of his sex affects him instinctually, the dragon beneath his skin never quite dormant.

It takes little to bring him to full hardness, especially when Zenyatta shifts up, slides Genji’s cock against his own, between his thighs, coating him from base to tip with his hot, copious slick.

His patience, drawn to a thread’s width, snaps. Absently he feels his nipples leak, droplets catching against the swell of his belly, his eyes burning with tears from the stimulation. Zenyatta grasps the base of Genji’s cock, lifting it from his dampened stomach, and rises up on his knees to settle the tip of it against his aching hole.

Zenyatta doesn’t realize he’s moaning Genji’s name like a mantra until the dragon, the man, stirs beneath him, breaches him with one, lazy, uncoordinated thrust that makes Zenyatta cry out and see sparks behind his fluttering eyelids.

Clawed hands grasp his hips, and Genji half-laughs, half-moans as he seats Zenyatta fully on his cock, giving him no reprieve. There is no pain, no resistance, not yet, and Zenyatta reels at the sensation of it, crazed, needing more.

“Please, Genji, please, I—”

Genji hums, lifts Zenyatta bodily, almost withdrawing completely, and Zenyatta wants it harder, faster, and he’s forced to squirm as Genji guides him back down in one smooth, slow slide, careful so careful.

“More, harder, please, Genji—”

“I have you. I have you.” Genji murmurs sleepily.

The green haze ripples along his skin like an afterimage; the dragon is always close now, watching its mate, caring for him as Genji does. Zenyatta grabs Genji’s wrists in a vice, tries to force his hips down harder, needing it, needing Genji to fill him up, to breed him again, more, faster—

Genji grunts and swears, fucking just a bit harder with languid canting of his hips. His husband shushes him with soft chirps, and Zenyatta realizes his stream of consciousness is spilling from his lips in a shameless deluge of pleas and gasps. He cannot feel embarrassed now, knows Genji would never judge him for it; on the contrary, his green eyes glow and dilate with Zenyatta’s babble, with the way his chest heaves and his body flushes from ear to toe.

“You are so wet, Zenyatta. Your cock is so big, look how swollen it is.” Genji moans, sleep-soft and husky but undeniably heated, and Zenyatta’s nails catch against his skin with the force of his struggles.

“Genji, let me, please—”

“No, just like this. I don’t want to hurt you.”

Zenyatta growls, shakes his head, but there is little time to protest, not when his orgasm is swelling like an unstoppable force, but even that is not what he wants, what he needs.

“Genji, need it, please, knot me, breed me—hhn—!” Zenyatta sobs, twisting, slamming his hips as hard as Genji allows, and finally he allows more, cannot resist his lover writhing on top of him with such abandon, drinking in the sight, the scent, the hot clenching of his hole like a perfect glove around his cock.

Zenyatta clamps up when the first wave hits him like a wall, holding Genji’s arms so tightly he bruises him, jerking his hips in harried spasms, catching his pleasure as he does, riding it with abandon, and there, finally, Genji roars in turn, bites off the sound as he feels and sees his husband come, filling him, near scalding, and the perfect, perfect ache of his knot swelling, plugging him up, stretching him past the point of pleasure and into delicious almost pain—

Zenyatta gasps and shakes, the force of his orgasm coating Genji’s stomach. He holds his own belly as he stares down at Genji, awareness and thought slowly returning, aftershocks delicious and sharp as Genji grunts and pumps him full.

He covers Zenyatta’s hand with his own, reverence apparent with how gently he does it, framing his stomach and the life within.

“I love you.” Genji says, and it makes Zenyatta’s heart flutter just as it did the first time Genji said it.

“And I, you.” Zenyatta breathes against Genji’s brow as he gently leans to kiss him.


	11. Hogzo, omegaverse

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> An omega cares for one of his own.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Pairing: Roadhog/Hanzo (hogzo)  
> Warnings: omegaverse, heats, fisting, fingering

The first time Hanzo sees Roadhog, he wonders. The man is a mountain, huge in ways he had never known outside of stories, with a large, sloping gut and impossibly thick arms, even at rest. He rarely speaks, but his voice rumbles when he feels inclined, prickling the hairs along Hanzo’s neck.

The fantasy of such an alpha is heady in his mind as months pass, the silence they share shifting from strange to understandable, even comfortable, in the quiet days between missions.

The telltale warmth pooling in his guts is the final straw. Too old, he had thought, for heats, the arduous life he had led quieting his body prematurely. Now, without suppressants or lover, Hanzo walks with purpose.

He hesitates outside of Mako’s door for an instant, knocks once with a decisive rap of knuckles.

Heartbeats later a sound from inside: a long, low grunt. The door unlocks.

Hanzo slips inside, blood thundering between his ears as he shuts the door behind him.

Mako kneels on the pink, rumbled sheets of his mattress, balanced on his stomach, large blunt fingers spearing himself open as he huffs and gasps. Without his mask, the man’s white hair tumbles into his eyes, frames his thick, scarred lips that shine with spit.

The smell is undeniable.

“You are an omega.” Hanzo breathes.

He should leave. He should call Dr. Ziegler, ask Lúcio or Reinhardt for aid.

He does not move.

Hanzo cannot stop starring at Mako: his cock, thick and heavy, drooling between his thighs. Cannot stop listening to the man’s low, animalistic moans as he turns those near-unseeing dark eyes upon him.

“What of it.” He challenges, though it is weak, almost childish.

He crooks his large, lacquered finger, beckoning.

Mako attempts indifference, attempts authority; it is how he fooled Hanzo in the first place. He chides himself for his ignorance. Would others judge him for his appearance, would they know from his life as the heir of Shimada that he is an omega?

Hanzo approaches, tongue swelling as the heat scent washes over him. The need to fight and defend is a distant thing, no match for the attraction he’s harbored over time spent with this silent giant.

He’s shaking by the time he settles onto the bed next to Mako.

“What would you have me do?” Hanzo whispers hoarsely.

He touches Mako’s shoulder, spreads his fingers along the scarred skin. He is no small man, but the trembling omega dwarves him, and he clenches his thighs against the wave of sudden want.

The harsh squelch of the man’s fingers picks up again, and Hanzo watches, breathless, as the huge fingers spear deeper, faster, harder. He begins to sweat, the heat the man puts off near stifling when he is so close.

“Any…” Mako gulps, tries again. “Anything you want.” The tone is alien to Hanzo.

He shifts down, touches Mako’s sopping fingers. The man grunts, withdraws them with an obscene pop.

Hanzo’s cock throbs against his thigh. Two omegas together were considered unseemly in his family, a waste of heats and bodies.

There are no Shimada now. No clan to please. Only his brother, who lives freely, who reminds him to do the same.

“Hurry.” Mako groans.

Hanzo traces the edges of Mako’s opening, wet and swollen from abuse, trembling and pink. He wants to taste him, but Mako is far past teasing. Even now his hips shiver backwards, wanting, willing.

He presses four fingers in with astounding ease; it’s even less than Mako fed himself, but he grunts, shoves back against Hanzo so hard it jostles him.

“Be still. I will take care of you.” Hanzo sinks his teeth into his lip as he touches the tips of his fingers together, wiggling his whole hand against Mako’s quivering body.

There is more resistance, enough resistance, and Hanzo sinks his hand inside Mako in a sweet, slow slide. The man trembles beneath him, gasping and huffing like a beast, and Hanzo can imagine that same force above him, working sweet pleas from his own body, but somehow, like this, it’s better.

Hanzo feels powerful, breathing in his smell, working hard, fluttery grunts from Mako as he shoves his hand inside, fucking Mako open with it, cum pooling out of the man’s cock and painting his huge, soft thighs.

He shoves his hand in his sweatpants, grasps his own cock, twists his fingers around his own, leaking hole as he works the thickest part of his hand inside Mako, unable to look away from how Mako sucks him in greedily.

“Close.” The man grunts, nearly unintelligible, and Hanzo gasps as the man begins to clench around him.

How would it feel, to press his cock inside this huge man, so sloppy and wet he would not be able to feel it? Hanzo burns all the way through, moaning at the thought, squeezing his hand into a fist as Mako begins to cum, roaring and squirming against him.

“Not as good as an alpha? Perhaps it is what you deserve. Getting fisted by a soft, simpering omega.” Hanzo wheezes, eyes glossy and black, mad with it. He feels hot in mind and body both.

Mako sobs in soft, little chuffs, dipping his head and working himself back on the hand inside him, swallowing Hanzo to his wrist.

“Still so greedy.” Hanzo can barely hear himself, doesn’t know what he’s saying. “Ssh, we will make do, won’t we. I will take care of you.”


	12. Genyatta + Shambali/Genji, Moresome

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Zenyatta finds Genji slaking his lust on members of the shambali.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Pairing: Shambali/Genji, Genyatta (at the end)  
> Warnings: public sex, valveplay, pining, moresome

It’s embarrassing how much Zenyatta’s influence permeates other facets of Genji’s life. His master acts with a mindfulness that seems otherworldly, graceful at every turn. The way he shifts from floating lotus to stand on two feet or delivers a kick, his body smoothing into a powerful line, always leaves Genji breathless.

In quieter moments, his thoughts return to this: Zenyatta’s hands extended towards him, palm up and open, the way his servos rest, thumb clasped to forefinger, faceplate tilted downward as he meditates. It is when Zenyatta is center in his mind and his heart that he realizes other shambali also possess those quiet, subtle motions that sets his heart racing, reminding him of someone he holds so dear, someone he is afraid to admit one thing only: his intense, unyielding love.

Genji yearns in his quiet, patient way, discipline honed as his master had taught him. Even so, he is a man, hot-blooded and wanting, and his mind and hands wander. His longing loosens his tongue, and he woos an acolyte with a three-dot array and a cheerful laugh, soft and sweet as a lark’s song. Once Genji tastes the clever hands and words of a shambali, he cannot resist repeating it.

Divit is first, then Nima, whom he takes apart while the others meditate in the main hall, their laughter and soft moans muffled behind hands and servos as they find their pleasure. Most do not have compatible upgrades for interfacing, but Genji is curious, eager to learn, and prides himself in his abilities. Anzan is harder to convince, but Genji coaxes them with sweet words and a sweeter mouth against their valve, swollen and dripping for him.

Genji works his way through half the shambali before anyone is the wiser. Perhaps omnics do not gossip about their partners, or perhaps it is the pious nature of monks that keeps word from spreading. However it happens, he is on his hands and knees in an antechamber, the smell of incense and oil in his nose as he swallows around a warm, silicone cock, when Zenyatta finds him. None of the shambali startle when they notice Zenyatta; Lei even nods to him, faceplate tilted up in haughty display as he pistons into Genji’s suckling mouth, swollen and red from abuse. Hoon squirms between Genji’s thighs, nimble fingers working his cock, nuzzling the hard, damp flesh with her faceplate, humming and pleased to have it. Masaki’s thrusts slow momentarily before she slams deeper, fucking with fiendish intensity once Zenyatta passes her.

“So this is what you have been up to, my student,” Zenyatta hums, circling the group of chirping, squirming omnics to look into Genji’s flushed face, pupils blown and chin flecked with spit.

Genji moans, surges forward, buries his face against Lei’s steaming chassis and laves the underside of his glowing cock with his tongue; if the others are not concerned, neither is he, friends in arms even as his master watches him with an array that glows and flickers, bright and curious. It would be a terrible moment to say it’s his master’s fault for stirring such lust within him, but caressed and claimed and fucked beneath his master’s watchful gaze, he can’t say much at all, only whimper and accept and wait for a time more opportune to confess how Zenyatta owns every ounce of him, that even a whisper of his memory makes him ache and long for his touch.

Genji’s conviction must shine in his eyes, for Zenyatta steps forward with purpose, shoulder to shoulder with Lei, cupping his sopping chin with a gentle, familiar grip.

“Do not take too long, Genji. I want to feel you as well.”


	13. GenReaper, escort, mild cbt

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Genji, tired of finding partners at clubs, hires escort Gabe for a night of fun.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Pairing: Genji/Gabriel Reyes  
> Warnings: mild cbt, spanking, sex work, dirty talk

“The photos don’t do you justice,” Genji says when he opens the door.

The escort smiles at him with an air of nervousness, but when Genji steps to the side he enters the apartment without hesitation.

Genji hadn’t exaggerated: Gabe is gorgeous, taller by half a foot, filling every inch of a strapless dress that clutches the muscled curves of his body. He even does a little walk for Genji, showing himself off as he struts, the sleek fabric riding up the thickest thighs he’s ever seen, teasing just beneath the perfect swell of his ass.

“Turn for me.” Genji says, feeling the familiar warmth between his hips when the man glances over his shoulder and poses, his tight curls bouncing above his neat undercut, a flush already dusting his cheekbones. “Very nice.”

His profile had said top, but Genji didn’t mind. With a body like that, he was willing to overlook any shortcomings. The longer he watches Gabe twist and pose, balanced but slightly trembling on his heels, expression not quite confident, the more his inexperience riles him. Maybe the man would get addicted to submitting, punished and trained by his own hand, and that thought has his teeth sinking into his lip and reaching for the soft red cords that would look so beautiful framing Gabe’s luscious tits.

“Take off the dress.” Genji says, beckoning him to his oversized bed with a crook of a finger. “Keep the shoes on.”

* * *

He is right.

The ropes squeeze Gabe’s chest to the point of obscenity, especially when he gasps as Genji squeezes a dark nipple, swelling so easily with the small touch. He rolls the swollen flesh between his forefinger and thumb, unable to get enough, drinking in Gabe’s expression as he gasps and bites his lip, eyes fluttering. The man cannot hold onto his frown though he tries, unsure at the treatment, of being powerless beneath a brat he outweighed by fifty pounds. He can tell Gabe enjoys it, his body glistening with the beginnings of sweat, his body segmented by the ropes around his chest and down the trembling planes of his stomach. He’d bound Gabe’s arms behind his back, forcing his chest to strain that much farther, a pretty set of makeshift breasts that peak at the lightest caress, begging to be milked. His cock lays half-hard in a bed of curls, bound at its base by cord that also clutches the growing tightness of his balls, swollen already, sexy like the rest of him.

Gabe yelps at the first smack against his tits. He immediately purses his lips, embarrassed.

“It’s okay. Let it out, princess.” Genji murmurs.

He swipes, broad-palmed, at Gabe’s neglected pec, plumping the skin with practiced blows, finally peppering a few across his untouched nipple. Gabe breathes through his teeth, brows drawn so low his eyes nearly close, struggling and failing to stay still.

“I can’t hear you.” Genji smacks the abused flesh with a crisp, hard sound that rings in the quiet room, and Gabe growls, a rumble that Genji feels in his chest. The Shimada lord coos, pawing at the angry flesh, tracing his nipples with a lacquered nail. “You make such a fuss, but your cute little cock sure enjoys it.”

Gabriel huffs, squirming, though he can’t move, not really, all his tugging and shifting tightening the ropes, squeezing his chest and cradling his drooling cock that’s beginning to mat the surrounding hair.

“Turn over.”

He complies, though it’s difficult, and Genji is treated to the sight of Gabe’s muscles flexing and straining, gleaming with sweat. Finally on his stomach, Genji admires his handiwork, cock throbbing and tenting the front of his jeans. Gabe’s muscled legs are secured at mid-thigh and calf, his heels resting just below his ass, his fists clenching and relaxing beneath his elbows in the middle of his straining back.

Genji doesn’t stay his hand longer than a few, precious seconds before he spanks Gabe’s ass with a smack that is only just louder than the man’s groans.

“Such a fat ass. Can you even feel that?” Genji purrs, and of course Gabe can. He squirms into the mattress with each blow, skin reddening so beautifully, his hard, brutish grunts devolving into soft, heated whimpers.

Genji gropes his ass, kneading the fresh marks, and Gabe hums, low and broken, trying to push himself into the mattress, to get away, Genji thinks at first. Then his hips grind in an incriminating jerk that cannot be anything other than Gabe fucking into the bed, catching his leaking cock against warm, silk sheets. He trails his eyes lower, hungrily staring at the twitching roundness of his balls, framed so snugly with soft rope.

“Maybe you will feel it here.”

He only uses three fingers, but he strikes him without mercy. Gabe roars, whipping his head to the side, dark eyes nearly black, hurt and awed, mouth twisting, slackening before the realization hits and he sputters behind clamped teeth.

Genji strokes Gabe’s balls while he cums, enjoying the feel of them drawn so tightly before contracting, pulsing against his palm, coating his bed in heavy ropes of cum. The man strains and groans, spilling hurt little sounds as he jerks and trembles, completely at Genji’s mercy.

“Ssh, that’s it.” Genji finally releases his swollen prize with a gentle smack, slinking up the bed like a cat and twice as pleased. He cups his clothed cock as he settles astride Gabe’s face.

“Now, let’s see what you can do about this.” Genji says, low and sweet, as he unzips his pants.


	14. Genyatta, mating press

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Pairing: Genji/Zenyatta (genyatta)  
> Warnings: mating press, valve + cock for zen, piv, multiple orgasms, creampie

****Genji doesn’t even have to ask. His master gives him just what he wants when he cups the backs of Zenyatta’s thighs and presses forward. The omnic makes a sound between a laugh and a gasp, warm and rumbling, even in his modulated tones. His student’s eyes roam his lower body with a hunger he’s never seen on a human’s face: his dragon’s lust, perhaps, threaded in the otherworldly green of his cybernetic eyes.

Zenyatta’s cock, segmented and max-capacity, hangs heavy against his chassis, twitching and pearled beneath his student’s gaze, his valve in much the same state, swollen with want for him. They’ve little more than rut against each other, his wires tasted and bitten while the same treatment has been gifted to the cyborg’s skin and metal both, plucked and stimulated, nipple blood red, stark against the pale, scarred skin around it. Genji’s body hisses with another release of steam.

Zenyatta is a moment from speech, the tension hanging in the air the longer Genji stares, panting and dark in the face. He rolls his lower lip into his mouth as he shifts forward on his knees, bracketing Zenyatta’s thighs, using his own to keep his master’s legs spread and feet curled towards the ceiling. His cock catches against the apex of Zenyatta’s valve, along the base of his cock, and his array flares, a sound popping from his synth. His chin angles up, exposing that long, tantalizing column of his throat, and it takes all of Genji’s restraint not to bend forward and claim it, bite at the wires, wishing more than anything that he could leave a mark. Foolish to be so possessive when his master has never given him any reason to doubt what they share, but still, still—to look at him from behind with his head angled down, the stripe of neck exposed and with his marks for all to see—

Everyone has something they can’t shake off.

Pressure along Genji’s cheek, and the cyborg nuzzles into Zenyatta’s smooth palm, resuming the gentle drag of their bodies together.

“Do you wish to s—hhn—”

The hand at his cheek clutches the nape of his neck as Genji angles back and descends, the position one of absolute control as his cock sinks inside with a moment’s resistance. For a second he’s too tight, stifling, a lick of sweet pain before Zenyatta recalibrates around him. He groans, deep and embarrassing, sweat beading along his brow as he bottoms out with a decisive slap of their bodies locked together, thick and loud.

“Genji…”

The taste of copper, he’s bitten his lip. He opens his eyes, the teal of his master’s array bright in the dim, flickering, angled slightly away, shy. Coy.

He snaps forward, pinning Zenyatta to the threadbare mattress. His breath fogs the side of Zenyatta’s faceplate where he buries his cheek against it. His arms take the brunt of his weight as he withdraws before snapping inside the slippery, clenching heat, starting a brutal, quick pace. Zenyatta strains against him, angling for some semblance of control, to fuck back against the thrusts that make the bed creak and tremble, but there’s nowhere to go, trapped by Genji’s muscled, quaking thighs. His master’s hands cross behind his shoulders, holding on, needing something to ground him, each thrust forcing a gurgle of sound from his synth, quiet, so quiet, hums and clicks and sweet, breathless gasps to help cool his body as it overheats, but Genji will not allow it.

Each wet smack is sweet, satisfying music to his ears, to the spirit sharing his body, a note vibrating in Genji’s mind, mirroring his own. _Mine_. He nuzzles into Zenyatta’s neck, grazes his incisors, grown long and animalistic, against his delicate red wires. He’s never heard Zenyatta sound like this, lost, shocked, perhaps scandalized to be claimed in such a way, helpless against being filled entirely with each thrust. Somehow Zenyatta remains unbelievably tight as Genji withdraws and buries back inside, only just enough room for his cock, slick silicone clutching all of him, driving him quicker, the pace maddening as the sensation burns down his spine and low in his guts.

The hands on his back sink into flesh and metal, a single, high chirp over the wet drag of their bodies. Then Zenyatta seizes, valve clenched so tight Genji swears. A hot streak of coolant catches against Genji’s stomach, his master shaking and lost beneath him as he comes, Genji fucking him harder, faster, broken little warbles driving him like a man possessed, his dragon so close in his mind he doesn’t know where his thoughts end and the beast’s begins.

His orgasm is upon him in a flash, and he buries deep and holds, flattening against his master and gasping into his neck, each swearing in their own ways, lost in a slurry of language and aching bliss.

It’s slow, soft. Everything a bit off, too hot, painfully sensitive. Genji kisses Zenyatta, traces the seam of his lip with his tongue while the omnic moves into it, a quiet, muffled moan vibrating along his student’s tongue. Genji slowly pulls back, hands on either side of Zenyatta’s chest, looking between their bodies where he’s still buried in his master, Zenyatta’s slick coating his pistons and that tantalizing black middle that flares at his hips.

Genji shifts as if he means to withdraw, watch his spend pool out of his master, his mate, and lie next to him as they always did, clean up and retire in each other’s arms.

Instead, he rolls his hips forward, relishing in the startled motion of Zenyatta, still locked in the position he had so readily allowed Genji. Once. Twice. Slow, steady thrusts, as much as either of them can stand so soon. Zenyatta turns his head to the side, array fluttering so prettily, frazzled as he twists his fingers around Genji’s forearms for purchase.

“O-oh…” He breathes, a waver in his voice, just this side of desperate. Awed.

By the time Genji’s done with his master, his reserves are depleted, forced out of his body by Genji’s unending attention, the sheets ruined with slick and seed. When Genji truly finishes, Zenyatta’s legs hold in place, spread and obscene. His lights are dull, dazed, Zenyatta still relishing in the aftershocks, weakened like Genji’s never seen him.

Then, Zenyatta slowly moves, thighs slackening, a shaking hand dragging down to ghost along his own cock, teasing the edge of his ruined inner workings.

“We should…change the sheets.”

With a laugh, he helps Zenyatta up just enough so he can replace the ruined cloth. Zenyatta tugs him into his arms, sighing, fingers dragging over the gentle cybernetics of his back in a way that makes Genji’s heavy eyes even heavier.

“I will have to reserve my energy for that in the future.”

“Oh?” Genji murmurs into his chest.

“It would not do to power down during.”

“Waking up filled and swollen is not a tantalizing prospect?”

Zenyatta’s hands still upon his back. Genji chances a look and find his master’s array as bright as his low energy allows. He laughs, kissing the warm metal of his chassis, the pistons supporting his power core.

“You’re so kinky, master.”

Zenyatta laughs once, hands resuming their patterns along his back.

“I suppose I have acquired some peculiar tastes from a certain amorous student.”


	15. Hanyatta, kotatsu sex, footjob (?)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Pairing: Scion!Hanzo/Human!Zenyatta  
> Warnings: semi-public sex, frottage, kotatsu sex, footjob (?), fantasizing

****Hanzo could get away with it when he was younger, when Genji was the constant distraction. A quiet dalliance or two was nothing compared to the shameful escapades of his younger brother, and their father was still alive to take care of them both.

When Hanzo became scion, when he slew his brother, he lost, along with everything else, his cover. There is no time. Not for long-term partners, not even for warm, unhurried touches from a pretty face in the dark.

A hand upon himself leaves him hollow, and no hand finds the sheets soiled come morning, even more embarrassing than getting off with as much efficiency as possible. Another weight on his shoulders, one among many. Another thing to make him irritable and crazed in his professional life.

This is not the first meeting they’ve had. One Tekhartha Zenyatta, a Shambali representative, sits across from him at the kotatsu. They drink sake in a small antechamber, lacking the formality of an official visit, something the clan can abide due to the foreign nature of his companion.

Zenyatta carries conversation well. Relaxed, charming. Years ago, Hanzo would’ve demurely invited him into his bed or to one of the furnished hotels he rented for such purposes. Press kisses into that long throat, suckle the tips of those graceful hands whose warmth bleeds through Hanzo’s clothes with every casual touch. Drag him into his lap and have him gasp and cry to the heavens until the sun kissed the horizon. Hanzo perhaps sips too needfully at his sake with those thoughts swirling in his mind.

The motion of Zenyatta’s lips fall into focus, and his gaze dips to his smooth chin, the line of his robes, the edge of the kotatsu blocking what he can easily remember: the monk’s legs crossed into lotus as he’s seen on one occasion or another, the slice of skin from ankle to mid-calf bare and tantalizing and so _open_.

“...a. Lord Shimada.”

Hanzo finds Zenyatta watching him curiously, a flush much like his own staining his high, rounded cheekbones.

“Are you well?”

Zenyatta leans forward, the collar of his robes shifting just so, and Hanzo can’t see anything but he doesn’t need to, mind filling in every gap with embarrassing, harried detail. His guards wait just outside the room. Listening, always present.

His tongue fattens stupidly in his mouth, scrambling for anything that will smooth over his lack of decorum. Even expensive sake goes down hard when he gulps the nearly full cup to its dregs. Hanzo cannot not lose this, whatever _it_ is. Zenyatta, who visited with the faintest guise of business but often stayed long into the night simply to talk with him, who called him Hanzo in the early hours of the morning.

His stomach sinks into his toes when Zenyatta averts his eyes. The monk cups his chin, embarrassed, god, _ashamed_ –

–something presses against his thigh, then–

Hanzo only just catches his groan, mashes it into a low, concealed growl as Zenyatta, his bare _foot_ , presses between his legs. Zenyatta still hasn’t looked back at him, taking another demure sip of his sake as he rolls the ball of his foot along Hanzo’s cock, trapped beneath fundoshi and robe, but it hardly matters, his body ablaze with a sudden, shocking hunger.

Zenyatta’s voice, low and gentle, holds the faintest heat as he continues their conversation.

“The lantern illumination festival is soon, is it not?”

Hanzo plants his hands on the table, white knuckled, ears buzzing, fighting every instinct to chuff and carry on like a beast as Zenyatta kneads him through his clothes, the gentle, swivel-drag of the soft sole of his foot unbearably teasing but almost too much to bear.

“I have heard many speak of its beauty.”

When Hanzo drags his eyes from the grain of the table, he finds Zenyatta staring back, thin eyes nearly closed, the intensity of his gaze staggering, shocking another barely contained whine from him. It spurs Zenyatta quicker, his presses more confident. There’s almost a coy playfulness to it, if not for how dazed the monk looks, carrying on with soft conversation as Hanzo clenches and strains into his secret touch.

“Yes. I have attended...before,” Hanzo says, his words gently slurred, power leeched from his body with every shift and press.

The look in his eyes must say it all, for Zenyatta’s face darkens, his plush lips rounding on a silent gasp. Crazed, his mind supplies everything he could do to the monk without the eyes of the clan upon him. Toss Zenyatta onto the kotatsu, peel his robes open and swallow down his cock while the monk fists his dexterous fingers in his hair and twists, his other hand clamped over his mouth to hide them. Suck marks into his skin, lap him open with his tongue, darker still, spear himself wide on his own fingers as he pleases him, mounting a cock as lovely as its owner, ride Zenyatta to his end until the monk heats his belly through with seed.

They would not be able to explain their dishevelment. The kiss marks Hanzo would surely leave, how they might stumble, sore and sated, from the room, the smell of sex lingering in the intimate space. If only Hanzo could keep him, his secret courtesan, his weakness, tucked away where no one would be able to hurt him. Something unbearably beautiful and just his, to stroke his hair or warm his cock and moan his given name.

His hips jostle Zenyatta’s foot, rutting as much as he can, sweat gleaming on his temples, fighting every instinct to grab his ankle and move him of his own accord, but even that feels a sin, a give, so he grits his teeth as his vision sharpens and blurs, until his dragon’s spirit swells along his arm, scenting and seeing Zenyatta and how the monk leans in, inches away but still an eternity from him, dark eyes reflecting the electric blue of his birthright.

Hanzo curls forward as he comes, nearly bent in half as his blunt nails catch against the lacquered wood and he slicks the inside of his fundoshi, blood thundering in his ears, but not loud enough to drown out Zenyatta’s trembling, heated words.

“...ful. I should like to visit, if you...would take me,” Zenyatta says, covering Hanzo’s stammered breaths, his quiet, lingering grunts as tears prick his eyes and the remnants of his sake drip on the table.

Zenyatta stays for an hour or so longer, though the stubborn flush never leaves his cheeks nor the expanse of his throat. Hanzo is not sure what he expects when the man finally stands, his robes prim and flat between his thighs, a stale, familiar disappointment welling inside him.

Next time. Next time. He would not let him leave without a taste.

**Author's Note:**

> For more fic and prompt requests, I'm on [tumblr](https://robotfvckers.tumblr.com).


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